


Serenades and Sharpies

by flamingburningfandomtrash



Category: Undertale
Genre: Guitars, Panic Attacks, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 06:55:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20421788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamingburningfandomtrash/pseuds/flamingburningfandomtrash
Summary: You sit in your room with broken sharpies and drawings of his eyes all over the walls. Eye sockets, really. But loving him is ridiculous, after everything you did.Guitars! Panic drawing! Nonsensical fluff!Sorry I haven't added a new chapter to my other series, I just really wanted to try this idea. It doesn't make much sense, but I mostly write these for fun so...don't read it if you think it's dumb. Easy. New chapter coming atcha soon!





	Serenades and Sharpies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BirbMuffin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirbMuffin/gifts).

> Thanks for always supporting me, raddawg!  
"Hey there, Delilah, here's to you. This one's for you."  
I don't even know who you are- but you're a lot more supportive about any of this than anyone I've had the pleasure to meet in real life. So, hats off, dude. Hats freakin' off.

After you’d broken the barrier, you’d decided, no matter what, you were staying in the Underground. So you did. For years and years.  
Humans were okay, but monsters were so much kinder. It had taken a little while (a long while) to break the genocide cycle, but when you finally shook whatever creepy thing was making you do it- it was easier to live with the guilt. You knew, deep down, it could never happen again. The skeleton brothers, Sans and Papyrus, stayed too. Most of your friends did, actually. Toriel moved out to start a school, but she visited. Asgore wasn’t around much either- he was mostly at diplomatic meetings and things. Papyrus and Undyne are in the new monster police force, and so they're pretty busy nowadays, too.  
With so few people around, you’d taken to hanging with Sans a lot. Though, it wasn't always easy. Sometimes you’d have to lock yourself in the little attic bedroom of the house you’d bought, trying to fight the urge telling you to destroy this perfect world and everyone in it- especially him. Sans was always downstairs when you came down, though, holding a plate of hotdogs or cookies or something, ready to welcome you back. He was so sweet around you, honestly. He’d taught you how to control your emotions and what it did to your magic, and the best positions to lie in to fall asleep. You’d laughed while he showed you, but they honestly helped a lot when you had nightmares. So you’d taught him something too, something you’d always loved- guitar. He was a fast learner- and with no skin to hurt, he could practice for hours and hours longer than you could show him before your fingers started to bleed.  
The more he came around, the more you expected to feel comfortable with him. Not the case- the more he came now, the more flustered and embarrassed you got. You pushed the thought that you might have a crush on him far away. That would be sick, after all you’d done to him. You asked, once, why he was doing this for you after all you’d done.

“‘cause i know it’s hard to break the cycle. every time you start on the right path, i wanna try to help… remember though, you touch Papyrus, i’ll kill you…ugh, sorry, that was harsh. force of habit.”  
“Heh, it’s okay. Not like I don’t deserve it.”  
“hey. i know it’s hard. c’mon, show me that chord again.”

One night, though, he’d acted especially off- stuttering and dropping things and not at all acting like his normal laid-back self. 

“Something wrong?”  
“i- um, yeah, i’m sans-tactic! heh.”  
“Yeah, okay, sure. So do you wanna hang out or are you gonna tell me what you really came over here for?”  
“well- um, heh, see, thing is, i need to borrow your guitar.”  
“What for?”  
“no biggie. just a thing.”  
“You writing a comedy song?”  
“nope.”  
“You gonna tell me why you want it?”  
“nope.”

You grin and jab a thumb at the attic stairs. 

“Should be on the ground somewhere up there.”  
“ok.”

He goes up, and something inside of you tenses. Wait, no, he can’t go up there-!

“hey, (y/n)? come up here a sec.”

Wincing, you climb the little spiral staircase to the room you thought you’d remember not to show him- your panic room, the one you went to to have your little freak-out days in. Sharpies are everywhere- and on every wall as high as the ceiling are sketchy, harsh pictures of your friends. Undyne, spear raised, Alphys poring over a textbook, Toriel baking, Asgore gardening, Napstablook writing songs, even a few big ones of Papyrus. But everywhere, instead of drawings of Sans, are pairs of huge round black circles with tiny white dots at the center. Sometimes the right dot would be bigger, smokier. His eyes. A million different expressions…but mostly they’re wide with fear or harsh or angry or sad. Every few drawings is a broken Sharpie with an ink splat on it where you’d stabbed the drawings helplessly. This is how you’d coped- instead of hurting them, you'd tried to remember why they were important to you. In a meek voice, you offer-

“Yeah, I kinda didn’t want you to come up here…”  
“are you…ok?” he asks, turning 360 to see them all.  
“I’m fine, this is just how I, um, panic,” you feel so awkward, but you feel like you need to offer SOME reason for this insanity.  
“yeah, i can see that. are these- are these my eye sockets?” He walks over and runs his fingers over the nearest pair.  
“Um, yeah, I think so. Kinda a big focus for me, apparently. Mostly I learn to ignore these, though- it’s kinda like somebody else draws them, I just have them in here.”  
“you’re, uh, really good, on a happier note.”  
“Heh. Thanks. Here’s the guitar.”

You hand it over and plop onto your bed, leaning against a sketch of Muffet with a Sharpie splat on one of her many arms. You close your eyes and count forwards and backwards from ten, taking deep breaths, trying not to think about all of this. When you open them again, Sans is looking at you, even more concerned.

“are you sure you’re ok?”  
“Guess so. Probably not, to be honest, but, hey! We’re a club, right? Cover up the depression with bad puns club. We probably need an acronym,” you laugh awkwardly.   
“yeah…hey, mind if i stay a bit? i was planning on leaving, but now i’m not sure it’s a good idea.”  
“You’ll never find me complaining if you stay. Take a seat in the creepy panic room, I insist.” you blush- that was probably not something you should’ve said. He turns a faint shade of blue and plops down, opening your guitar case. 

“i, um, i learned a few songs. got some sheet music off of the Undernet.”  
“Wow, good job!” you say, impressed, “What’d you learn?”  
“um, ‘Hey There Delilah’ was the first one.”  
“That’s actually one of my favorites. Can you play it?”  
“yup.”

He holds the guitar close to his chest and starts to play. (Seriously, please listen to this song, it’s so sweet: Hey There Delilah, by the Plain White T’s) 

“hey there Delilah, what’s it like in New York City,  
i’m a thousand miles away but girl tonight but girl, you look so pretty,  
yes you do.  
Times Square can’t shine as bright as you.  
i swear it’s true.  
hey there Delilah, don’t you worry about the distance,  
i’m right there if you get lonely,  
give this song another listen, close your eyes.  
listen to my voice, that’s my disguise.  
i’m by your side.  
Oh, it’s what you do to me,  
Oh, it’s what you do to me,  
Oh, it’s what you do to me,  
Oh, it’s what you do to me-”

His voice breaks after that note, and he stays silent for the rest of the song. When he finishes, you feel guilt and shame and panic start to claw at your lungs, and you say,

“Go, I’ve got another one coming on, take the guitar. That was…” you search his worried eye sockets before you finish. “That was beautiful." And then, you don’t remember anything.

Later, it must have been a few hours, you hear little pops and taps at your attic window. Some part of you must be conscious, because you open it and look out, halfway through a sketch of one of Sans’ eyes. You hear soft guitar from somewhere far away, not really registering where it’s coming from- that is, until you hear your favorite part.

“-Delilah, I can promise you, that by the time that we get through,  
The WORLD will never, ever, be the same!  
And you’re to bla~ame!”

You look directly down, fully conscious now. Under your window, leaning against the wall of the house and looking up at you, is Sans. When you see him standing there, you smile, that little one that just barely shows your teeth and crinkles up your eyes. 

The one that makes him smile every time.

When he finishes the song with a little strum, you ask,

“Was that TO me or FOR me?”  
“to you, i think.”  
“You think?”  
“ok, definitely to you.”  
“Get up here, bonehead.”

He laughs and shortcuts into the attic, holding your guitar. You sit on your bed crosslegged, not staring at him, but at the new pair of eyes on the wall. Well, eyesockets. They’re looking down, focused but lost simultaneously. Like when he’s playing. Sans turns from you to the wall, then comes to sit down by you. He stares at them too. You want to speak, say something witty at your own expense, but something stops you. You turn to look at him, surprised to find he’s already turned to you. He doesn’t turn away when you catch him looking. You blush heavily and look down, choking out some words.

“So, heh, um, that was really really good…why’d you, um, do it?”  
“wanted to snap out of it.”  
“Well, heh, you did…”  
“i’m gonna pull a Paps and assume you aren’t ok. you wanna talk about it? at all?”  
“I-”

You try to start, but every time you do, your throat starts to burn and your eyes sting. You take a few deep breaths, trying to count backwards and forwards from ten, but this time you snap halfway through, tears spilling over. You swipe at them, praying he doesn’t notice. He does, of course. 

“hey, c’mere, it’s ok.” He gives you a one armed squeeze and lets you “not cry” into your sweater sleeves. You don’t realize you’re leaning against him until you’re finally done. You tense, realizing how awkward this must be, and you try to pull away and sit up. 

“…Sorry, I didn’t, um, I wasn’t really-”  
“hey, don’t sweat it, i don’t mind.”

You look at him, and he’s bright blue in the face, scratching the back of his neck with a hand. He stands, putting your guitar back in the case, and you rub at your eyes and ask,

“Before you go, when you said you were singing that TO me…did you mean it?”  
“yup- if that’s okay.”  
“Yeah, um, yeah, I’m good…god, I wish Papyrus were here.”  
“heh. you gonna tell me he’s dead and then i’ll wake up?”  
“No…no! Wait, you think this is a dream?”  
“i’m half-sure.”  
“So, do you normally have dreams like this?”  
“they can get pretty weird.”  
“You think this is a good dream?”  
“…yeah, i think so. anyway, why’d you wanna see Paps?”  
“Oh, no reason. He’s good at not being as awkward as me. And um, hugs.”  
“well, i’m not much for not being awkward, but i’m good at hugs.”  
“oh, really?”

You arch an eyebrow, feeling like everything is back to normal, and giggle. He laughs too, but sticks out his arms tentatively.  
You stand to hug him, but you trip on the strap of your guitar case and fall. Before you hit the ground, though, you realize Sans caught you. You look up, and see his face, and blush heavily, laugh a little. He smirks, regaining his composure, and sets you on your feet.

“heya, don’t go falling for me.”

Under your breath you mutter, “too late” as you straighten out your shirt and try to regain your own cool. But when you look up, he’s staring again, looking surprised. 

“What?” you ask.  
“‘too late’?” he asks back.  
“Oh. Heh. Shit.”

He heard you, goddamn it, of course he did. You’re red, you know you are, you can feel your face and ears burning. It’s not like you can just brush it off as a joke with your reaction already looking like this. 

“um, do you wanna ta-” he starts, but you cut him off.  
“I need to um, do stuff. Bye.”  
“woah, it’s ok, you-”  
“Bye.”

He looks like he wants to fix this, but he also looks really nervous and uncomfortable. Finally, he leaves, and you’re left slamming your head against the attic wall over and over again, feeling like an idiot. (Little do you know, he’s at home doing the same thing.) He doesn’t come to visit the next day. Or the next. Or the next. Two full weeks and a million sketches later, you hear a knock on your door.  
You panic- is that him? You’ll never have time to try to hide the bags under your eyes and the ink all over your hands- you haven't slept much since he left. But a glance out the attic window says it’s Papyrus. Oh, yeah. It’s his off day. You go downstairs and open the door.

“Hey, Paps.”  
“Oh dear. I thought this might happen.”  
“What?”  
“(Y/n), you look terrible. No offense, of course.”  
“None taken. I know. I’m just glad Sans doesn’t see me like this.”  
“He’s actually why I’m here- he told me what happened.”  
“Oh, geez. Here, gimme a sec.”

He’s left standing in the snow, but even the door can’t mask your scream of total self-hatrid, and neither can the crappy throw pillow you screamed into. You come out, still awkward as ever, but ready to face it.

“Whelp. Alright then. Come on in, I’m gonna have to face this eventually.”  
“Are you okay, you look like you could use some sleep… have you been eating much?”  
“Well, I kinda hoped I’d starve to death before I’d have to have this conversation,” you say, only half kidding. You really hadn’t eaten much recently.  
“We will handle that first. Where is your kitchen?”  
“You don’t have to, Paps, really, it’s a wreck.”  
“*sigh* If you insist. The reason I came is because Sans-” here it comes- “really misses you.”

Wait…  
What?

“What? What do you mean? I thought after my little show he’d NEVER want to come back here!!”  
“No! You’re all he thinks about since he left! He feels bad for leaving, he’s been worried sick about you, and now I can see why! Goodness, (y/n), why would you think that?”  
“I just- I said some things, I kinda told him, um,”  
“That you would like to date him.”  
“No! No, I mean, yes, but that’s not what I- damn it.”  
“Yes, I thought so. Funny thing is, he wants to date YOU too, you know.”  
“-! I um, I very much did not know that…frick, I’ve screwed this all up, haven’t I?”  
“No, I don’t think so. Well, I suppose it’s obvious to me, but it’s difficult for most people to tell his emotions apart from one another.”  
“Here, come in, I’m letting all the cold in.”

But you mostly let him inside so you have an excuse to not look him in the eyes. Was all of this true? Or was it some elaborate prank Sans set up to mess with you?

“I tell you all of this because he’s on his way over, by the way.”  
“WHAT?!”

You jump and twist around. No! He can’t see you like this, all flustered and tired and covered in Sharpie! 

“I- I’m going to go upstairs! You can stay as long as you like, um, tell him not to shortcut up there, please!”  
“Why? Are you okay?”  
“N-no…bye!”

You run up the attic stairs and lock the door, panting and freaking out. Your hands itch to pick up the Sharpies again, but you know you can’t do that. Instead you shut the windows and scream into a pillow again. A minute later, you hear a knock on the door. Is it Papyrus or Sans?

“Please don’t come in…” you whisper, leaning against the door so whoever it is can't open it.  
“you’re supposed to say “who’s there”.”  
“Sans…”  
“c’mon, say it.”  
“. . .who’s there?”  
“Norma Lee.”  
“Norma Lee who?”  
“Norma Lee i don’t go around knocking on doors, but you don’t want me to come in.”  
“Look, I-I’m sorry Sans, I’m sorry I said all that stuff, I’m sorry I’m locking you out, I’m sorry I draw all this stupid stuff on my walls. . . I…I’m sorry I killed you guys,” you stop then, when your voice breaks.  
“you don’t think i’m still mad about that, do ya?” he says, softly. You sigh-  
“You aren’t mad, I know that… you don’t have any reason to keep coming back, though. I would go as far as to say you have a lot of reasons to stay away.”  
“well, you have a really comfy couch," he chuckles. You don't laugh. "kidding! heh…tough crowd, huh? you know i keep coming back because you’re here, right? you’re fun to be around. and it’s not like i have anyone else to hang around with during the day, since i’m too lazy to get some surface job.”  
“. . .you’re serious?”  
“yup.”

You pause, and then slide the deadbolt and open the door. He looks shocked at how awful you look, but he gets over it in in a fraction of a second. 

“heh. glad to have ya back.”  
“Bonehead.”  
“maybe. c’mere, i never got that hug.”

You walk forward and hug him, and he squeezes you. It probably lasts a second more than a normal hug would, but you don’t say anything- and you make absolutely no move to pull away. You smile a little afterwards, and pick up the guitar off of the floor.

“Something tells me you’re going to need this. Give it back tomorrow, though, ‘kay?”  
“ok. also, seriously, eat something. get some goddamn sleep, (y/n). you’re going to burn yourself out. i’ll chuck some more rocks at your window when the show starts. oh, and, just so you know? i like how my eyes look in these.”

He taps on the wall with a finger, turns and walks down the stairs. When he’s gone, you pick up a Sharpie and go to an empty corner of your room, for once with a clear mind. You get lost in the jerky strokes immediately, not knowing how “panic you” does this. But in the end is a rough sketch of Sans. All of him, not just his eyes. You draw your guitar. And the words to Hey There Delilah swirl around him. Then you go down to take care of yourself.  
A few hours later, you’re sitting in front of your newest sketch with clean hands, clean hair, and finally some food in you. When you hear the pops on the window, you go and open it, but what you see is not at all what you expected. Sans has the guitar, and Papyrus is holding up a boombox. Is that Bruno Mars?

(He plays ‘The Lazy Song’ by Bruno Mars. I am not typing out the lyrics, but seriously, this would be Sans’ jam, I guarantee it.)

By the end, you’re belly laughing, grinning out at Sans as he strums on the guitar, singing out the words and even hopping a little from foot to foot. Papyrus is laughing, too. When he’s finally done, you shout encore from your window. Papyrus fiddles with the dials on the boombox, puts it on a shoulder and walks away, smiling.

Before you have time to react to the sudden departure, Sans is strumming on the guitar again, a tune you’ve never heard.

“i know i’m crazy-  
it’s just a fact.  
but when you’re with me-  
i’m not alone in that.  
and i know the sketches  
drawn on your walls  
are the reason that i love you…  
the reason i forgive you…  
for all the time spent in that hall.”

It’s so short, but so sweet. You call down just loud enough for him to hear, trying to keep your voice from wavering.

“I- thank you. Um, come up here a sec, I wanna show you something.”

He twists on the spot, and then he’s in the doorway, holding the guitar and staring at the floor.

“’sup?”  
“Look at that one over there. I know it’s bad, I did it when I was conscious, but do you like it?”

He follows your finger to the sketch of him and the guitar and the words. He looks at it a minute, then nods.

“yeah, i do. did you, um,” he takes the guitar strap off. “did you like this?”  
“Yeah. I did- er, I do. I really do. Do you really like whatever,” you wave your hands a little, gesturing at your Sharpie stained self. “Whatever mess THIS is?”  
“heh. yup.”

You grin and hug him, taking your guitar back. He chuckles when he looks at how flustered you are, and says,

“i’ve never been really good at the whole, um, ‘tell people how you feel’ thing, so i really don’t know how else to do this, but, um- i, uh, i kinda, um-”

You nod. He loves you, a little.

“Yeah. I know. Can we just leave it to the song you did?”  
“good idea.”  
“Same here, though. I mean, um, like, I feel like that, too. I shouldn’t- obviously, cause like, the whole murderous child ordeal, but-”

He silences you with another hug. 

“hey, i’m ok, right? you’re ok. we can work out the rest later. in the meantime, i need to go tell Paps i finally scored a girlfriend.”


End file.
